Pilgrims Madness

I hope you are strong enough to think for yourself.
To chose on your own who and how you want to be.
Do not be shaken by me not being the person you knew yesterday.

I am no longer the image you look upto.
Your beacon of hope for good things and ways of being.
Today you note the grime on my hands.

Well, I too am a pilgrim.
Last night I sat down in this puddle of mud and am covered in dirt.
But that’s me, and this is my madness.

Do not give up your own journey.
Travel on. Make your own way.
I will one day get up and shake off the madness.
For today, I engage with the mud.

Bite Sized Thoughts

Strip Naked

Get naked, strip down to your core,

Then you can truly respond to the question

‘Who are you?’



Allow yourself to come undone,

Sometimes its the only way to break out of your shell

To escape your skin that has become a straitjacket.



The brave Samurai of ancient times

is unfit for today’s nuclear war,

Let him rest where he lies.


Climatic Chaos

So even if there’s a hurricane,

an earth quake and volcanic eruption all at once,

the earth keeps turning.


Webs of Nothing

Weaving connectedness to

the unavailable, the undesirable and imbalanced.

Holding on to leashes of dogs that are long dead.

Off Stage Dynamics

Q: … and that laying bare of intense passions between you and Samurai, how do you explain that?

A: That moment was unscripted, we were on break in between scenes.No make up, no costumes, no director, we were off stage.

It was not part of the performance, it was sort of uuuuum … an element of alternate reality that poured into this one.

Q: And now, Bard, Don’t you interact like that anymore?

A: Well, now we are back on stage, we are in character, we each know our lines and stick to them.

In the script, our characters no longer engage with emotional depth, we are almost in parallel lives that touch tentatively once in a while.


Questions on heart break

What is the sound made by a heart as it breaks?

Does it shatter like glass?
Or does it sickeningly crackle like breaking bone?
Is it like cloth tearing to make a tourniquet? 
Can one hear its creak like a tree branch breaking?
Or does it roar like an avalanche?
Maybe it’s like a scream in outer space.

How long does it take to break a heart?

Is it done with several axe falls?
Does it wear out like water washes away a river bank?
Or does it break and melt like ice on a frozen pond in spring?
Is it in a moment,  like a brick under a karate chop?
Maybe it’s over a moment and a life time.

Why does the heart break anyway?

Is it in defence like a lizards tail?
Or a car bumper that absorbs a crash impact?
Does it break so we can step out of it for a new one to grow, sort of like a snake’s skin?
Or does it break like the hatching of an egg for us to come out and live in the real world?

Maybe it breaks simply because it can’t bear the weight anymore.

Don’t fix the broken

Giant fissures and hair thin cracks
Brokenness in places too deep and dark to reach
A wearing out of reason as it scrapes against the jugged edges of the real

Fix and realign the derailed
Relocate the  axis of it all
Call to order the moons spinning out of orbit and
Cajole the seasons that refuse to bide their time

On second thought, lets not call them fissures, they are air vents
Brokenness? No, reconfiguration; And
Perharps reason was not meant to last

Do nothing, let it all freely find its space
Rename seasons and remap the moons
Let the thick soup of darkness swish around, don’t dip your hand in it

Bathing out loud

It is like taking a bath in front of an audience,

subconsciously, I am in constant negotiation between performance, efficiency or simply bathing.

A bath to cool down, to relax, to cleanse away the fatigue, stress and dust

A bath is at times sheer abandonment and leisure while in many instances it’s been to sooth aching muscles.

They see me luxuriate and wonder how I can relax in such a shallow tub

As I vigorously scrub away at what I feel is dirty, they watch

as I massage certain parts and merely splash water on others.

They observe as I wince at the sting of soap in my eyes

or when I sit still, eyes tightly shut as I am jarred by pain from scratching a scar that has not healed properly.

Even if I miss a spot, they can only watch and see and may not be able to tell me as they are not sure they should be watching anyway or they may not feel the right to tell it to me.

They are torn between thoughts of ‘she wanted us to watch or else she wouldn’t bathe in public’ or ‘maybe she simply wanted to bath out in the sunshine and we should walk away and not watch.’

When I use a pumice stone on my face, a terry cloth on my legs or a cotton swab on my back, they can merely look on, they wait to see how I wash my lady parts, scrub my nails, do I wash behind my ears or if I rinse my hair more than once.

Those that interact outside bath time may become more understanding of the scratches on my face or they may become scared and interpret my actions as madness or they may simply walk away and think, ‘well, what’s the big deal? we all do that anyway.’

Writing about myself is in some ways like bathing.